


Now or Never

by Pacificrey



Series: These Streets Are Paved With Blood and Gold [5]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Sideshow - Fandom
Genre: Family Problems, Gen, Prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 11:11:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15971135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pacificrey/pseuds/Pacificrey
Summary: Criken’s never told his crew the whole story of his first life. And there is a very good reason for that.





	Now or Never

**Author's Note:**

> “From ancient grudge break to new mutiny // Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean” ;)

_“Pinkie promise Key,” Bree smiled, her cheeks rosy and warm, despite the cold of the winter storm outside. Bree was sitting, her elbow rested on her thigh, and her hand was extended, pinkie up, awaiting an answer. Bree blinked slowly, tilting her head, giving Keenan her best puppy dog eyes. Her gold dress sparkled in the fake candlelight, reflecting onto the walls of the small closet they had escaped to with their stolen bottle of expensive champagne. Keenan loved how relaxed and normal he felt, his legs intertwined with Bree’s in the cramped space, the warmth from their bodies expanding and warming the air and drying his hair, the smell of Bree’s expensive perfume, of the wet leather of Keenan’s shoes. He could hear the muffled sound of the party going on downstairs, but knew that no one would come looking for them._

_“I promise B,” Keenan said, interlocking his pinkie and shaking her hand. Bree took a swig of the champagne, and grimaced. Keenan laughed, and she handed him the bottle. “To the future,” he said as he raised the bottle in her direction. A buzz and light distracted Bree, and she flipped over her phone, groaning as she read the message._

_“My father wants to know if I’m staying the night,” she made a gagging noise, pointing down her throat, making Keenan laugh, almost spitting out his drink. He swallowed and wiped his mouth._

_“Does the heiress of the Morgan fortune wish to stay?” He asked, in a haughty accent. Bree laughed, speaking out loud as she typed._

_“I will not be staying the night, as it seems that the son of the Mosimann throne has had a little too much to drink.” She stuck out her tongue, making an exaggerated motion to hit the send button._

_“I’m hurt that you think I can’t hold my liquor,” Keenan said, his hand dramatically placed on his chest._

_“It’s not that I think,” Bree pointed. “I know.” Keenan laughed again, leaning back against the wall. He closed his eyes, hoping that it could be like this forever, hoping he could keep this promise._

___

“Please, Keenan. If you’re going to interrupt, speak the fuck up so that we can hear you.” The woman spoke, and Keenan internally cringed, feeling himself already retreating back out of the doorway, back into his room, out of this whole nightmare.

“I said, what time is the gathering on Sunday?” He raised his voice, trying to even his shoulders like his father taught him. The woman laughed, a genuine and rare sound.

“You mean your 18th birthday? Ceremonies will begin at 4 pm.” Keenan nodded.

“Thank you mother,” He said, his voice clear. “Goodnight father,” he added as he closed the door. The hallway was cold, the winter cold still blowing through the hallways. Keenan made his way quickly through the house, back up to his room, locking the door behind him.

Four days.

That’s all he had before he was trapped here forever. Four days before this would be the only life he knew, before he had to run this whole business, if that’s what you would call it. It wasn’t the mafia, no, that brought images of Al Capone, and old school gangsters. No, his family was worse. They were the ones that survived. Tradition ran through their blood, and at the eldest son’s 18th birthday, he would be given control of the organization. And Keenan was their only son.

He hated it. He hated his family, how his destiny was chosen even before he was born. He knew he wasn’t just a pawn, his mother made sure of that. He had been conditioned, trained, drilled to be able to defend himself, to fight, to kill. He hated how he could shoot a gun before he could spell his own name, how the smell of blood was more familiar than anything else, how his own mother and father praised his first successful mission more than his good grades. How, if he ever had children, they would be subjected to the same exact fate.

And he hated how good he was at it.

He didn’t want this life. More than anything, he’d love to be able to walk somewhere and have no one look his way, knowing exactly who he is.

He had promised that to Bree, and he wanted to make good on that promise.

The whole thing made Keenan’s stomach turn: the white tablecloths, the fancy ballroom, everyone wearing white. He adjusted his own white tie, feeling himself getting nervous. As he walked down the stairs, he scanned the room, getting a good layout of everything. There were two exits on either side, that he had already bribed the staff to lock after a certain time. Everyone was disarmed as they entered, but Criken had made sure to sneak in a pistol, and it was taped under his table, front and center. He smiled awkwardly, passing a couple who nodded in respect. He watches as he parents spot him from across the room, gesturing him over.

“Keenan, please, introduce yourself,” His mother ordered, gripping his shoulder tightly. Keenan held his hand out, and the man shook.

“I’m Keena-” he began, but the man laughed, interrupting him.

“Oh we already know who you are,” he looked over at Keenan’s mother, smiling. “You’ve done well with this one.” The man released him, and began talking to his mother instead, giving Keenan an escape, and he continued around the room, feeling the nervousness rise in his throat. He almost ran over Bree, who turned suddenly to face him. She looked up in surprise, her face softening when she recognized Keenan. Her hair was dyed blonde, and hung loose around her shoulders. She was wearing a white gown, and Keenan couldn’t help but notice the stark purple bruises hiding under her opaque sleeves, the faded and covered black eye on her face. Keenan clenched his jaw. The first time he had seen them was when he took her out after ballet. Her tights had revealed the slew of marks covering her legs. Bree was a little more rebellious than Keenan, and her family that much more strict. But like Keenan, her destiny had been written far before she was born. She was the 5th of 5 children, her mother had tried again and again to get a girl.

A girl to fulfill the treaty with Keenan’s family. It was disgusting, they had both agreed to that.

“Heterosexual bullshit,” Bree called it, but it was a truce that was written many years ago to keep the peace between the warring families.

“How are you doing?” Keenan asked, and Bree sighed, her eyes full of answers she couldn’t say.

“I’m good,” was all she could manage, lifting her face into a forced smile. Keenan gently caressed the side of her face, and she closed her eyes. He smiled back. With his other hand, he held out his pinkie, she took it, and they stood for a moment in the crowded ballroom, feeling completely alone. Someone called his name, and the trance broke as they pulled apart, Keenan leaving Bree standing there alone in the center of the room.

He wandered, pretending to enjoy himself, feeling the anger boiling up inside of him more and more. These people did not care at all about him. They cared about the money, about the truce, about business. To them, he was just another piece of the puzzle. Another wheel to keep this monster running.

His mother caught his eye across the room, and he walked back to the front table, adorned in crisp white tablecloths and white roses. His mother held up a glass, clinking it lightly with a knife. The sound echoed through the room, and people turned, quieting their conversations. Waiters with new glasses of champagne began to circle the room, and Keenan took a deep breath. It’s now or never, he thought. He couldn’t turn back now.

“Welcome everyone, to the official beginning of our son’s reign,” his mother spoke, and people politely clapped, and she smiled, but there was nothing kind behind the gesture. “This is the start of something good for everyone,” she looked over at Bree’s table, where Bree’s father gripped her shoulder tightly. “For now, and for years to come.” She raised her glass, and the crowd followed suit, mirroring her toast. “To the future,” she said, looking at Keenan as she said it, making eye contact as she took a sip. Keenan raised his glass in return, not drinking. Then it started.

The coughing. People began to clutch at their throats, retching and dropping their glasses. Keenan put down his own glass, looking out at the group, feigning confusion.

“What,” his mother began, looking out, then at his father, who had begun coughing as well. She held a hand to her own chest, feeling a cough rising in her chest. Keenan looked over as Bree’s father let go, choking, falling to the ground. More and more people fell to their knees, and Criken reached under the table, his hand wrapping around the grip of the pistol.

“Keenan,” his mother choked out, her eyes filled with pain. “Please.” He looked over, and in that moment, he felt something click. The world seemed to stop turning, and for a second, he felt that he was making the worst decision of his life. Right then, he felt a piece of his soul died. Looking back, maybe it was a good thing, but it hurt so fucking much, Keenan hesitated, hand shaking underneath the table. His mother laughed, a gurgled, disgusting noise as blood filled her throat. She coughed again.

“You’re just like your father. Pathetic, indecisive. You can’t even finish a job you’ve started,” she spit blood, the bright red splattering across Keenan’s shoulder, dripping down the white. Keenan ripped the gun out, cocking it and pointing it straight at his mother.

‘It’s not indecisiveness Mother, it’s mercy,” Keenan said, as he aimed down, the shot exploding across the room, taking out her knee. She screamed, and Keenan cocked the gun again. “And you’ve just used the rest of it.”

_Shot._ Keenan worked his way around the room, his suit splattered in blood, red dripping down his face.  _Shot._  He didn’t feel anything anymore, only the cold of the gun and the smell of gunpowder.  _Shot._  He didn’t remember the number of times he fired, only that he could feel himself reload, muscle memory kicking in.  _Shot._  He turned around, he could hear the click of heels as Bree walked towards him as he stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by death. She stopped, her hands out cautiously.

“Keenan,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, it’s okay,” she said, repeating it over and over as she slowly approached him. Her hands shook as she slowly pulled the gun out of his hands, grabbing his hand gently. “This way, come on, it’s okay.” She pulls him into the kitchen, pulling on random knobs and levers as they walk, and finally she leads him outside, out the back, into the snow, and as the air hit his lungs Keenan’s breath catches, constricting with cold and he breaks out of the trance.

And he begins to cry. Not from sadness, and definitely not happiness. Keenan was overwhelmed with a feeling of uncertainty.

“What do we do now?” He asked, looking over at Bree, who was looking up at the old building. She shot him a look.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said, ripping the shawl around her shoulders, pulling out a lighter. “We’re going to burn this fucker to the ground.” She holds up her lighter, flicking it on, and catching the shawl on fire. As it catches, she throws it back into the kitchen, grabbing Keenan’s hand again and running as the gases catch, creating a fireball that blows them forward. They land, Keenan pushing himself up and turning to see the building engulfed in flames. He grabs Bree’s arm, pulling her up, his hand hovering over her.

“Are you okay?” he asks, wiping his own tears, seeing a dazed expression on her face. Her eyes lock, seeing Keenan, then she slowly looks over at the burning building. And begins to laugh. A full body, hands in the air, loud laugh that Keenan had not seen in a very long time. She looked back at Keenan, a new light illuminating her eyes.

“I’m great,” she smiled, and as they hear sirens in the distance. “We have to go.”

They drove to Keenan’s safehouse, one that neither his parents nor Bree knew about, as they decided on their next course of action. Bree shook in the cold, even inside, and Keenan went searching through drawers, dressing Bree to the best of his abilities, getting her some too tall clothes that she swam in, but at least she was warmer.

“Here,” He slung a blanket over her shoulder as she sat on the couch. She stared straight ahead, and Keenan could feel the weight of what they’d done finally settling in Bree.

“Burn that dress,” Bree spoke up, still looking straight ahead. “You should probably burn the tux too,” she added.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Keenan said, stripping off the jacket and tossing it into a pile in the middle of the living room. He stood there in his boxers, shaking from the cold, and grabbed another blanket, walking to the fireplace, shoving in the clothes.

“God that dress was so expensive too,” Bree complained as Keenan placed a lit piece of wood on the material; He was more than happy to get rid of the blood soaked tuxedo, watching it go up in flames.

__

Bree wanted to go somewhere warm, and Keenan was not opposed to a California lifestyle. Keenan made a few calls, got them a jet with pilots that wouldn’t ask any questions, leaving tonight. They packed, not like either of them wanted to bring much from their lives here.

They didn’t talk a lot on the plane. There was so much to say, but neither of them wanted to start. Finally, Keenan woke Bree.

“How do you like Criken?” He asked, and she shook her head.

“For what?” Her eyes were still squinting from sleep. She reached out, yawning.

“My new name.” Bree closed her eyes again, now leaning forward. “Bree?” Keenan asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s nice,” She said, her eyes still closed. “Then can I call you Crik?” She smiled, and Criken laughed.

“Yeah, call me Crik.”

___

Between the both of them, they could buy the whole city, but neither of them wanted that, not yet. For now, they wanted to just blend in. They wanted to disappear. But it still took some getting used to. They lived together for those first few month, since it was too much effort finding another apartment, and it was also nice to come home to someone you knew. But the threat that someone would find them, that someone would drag them back…it haunted them both for longer than either would admit. Keenan had nightmares for months, waking up drenched, breathing heavily, Bree coming to comfort him, hearing him whimper and scream in his sleep.

Sometimes he’d do the same, walking in to find her crying on the bathroom floor, and they’d sit there for hours, synchronizing their breathing, feeling the other sitting there, taking comfort that they were real, this was real.

They did it.

When they were sure they were safe, Bree moved. She had always wanted to see Seattle, and Criken was finally ready to explore on his own. They said their goodbyes, and promised they would see each other again soon.

A month later, a newspaper article catches his eye. A mugshot of Bree, her hair dyed brown, smiling and posing for the camera, with the caption - “Bunny Bandit goes free.” He laughs to himself, stepping onto the road, just as he’s almost run over by an old mustang, its driver’s red hair clearly visible, and his fading yelling that Criken can make out to probably be something offensive. Criken yells back, and the driver swings around, causing a cacophony of beeps and swerves. Criken is too stunned to run, to do anything else, that he stands there as the man speeds back around, pulling up along the curb.

“What’s your name pretty boy?” The man asks in a thick Boston accent.

“Uh, Criken,” He responds, looking around, wondering if he’s making this up.

“Well Criken, it’s your lucky day.” The man pauses, pulling down his sunglasses. “Hop in.”

“I’m not getting in some random guy’s car that almost hit me,” Criken argued, and the man glanced in the rearview mirror.

“You see, the thing is, you’ve seen my face now. So unless you would like to mysteriously disappear, I’d get in the car Criken,” the man looked over at Criken, raising his eyebrows. Criken groaned, rolling his eyes, and stepped in the car, the man pulling away as he shut the door. Almost as if on cue, police cars appeared behind them, and the man swore.

“Fuck, okay quick introduction. Hello, my name’s Tomato and if you’d like to get to your destination in one piece, please pick up the rocket launcher in the back seat.” Tomato pulled hard on the steering wheel, sending them flying sideways.

“Shit!” was all Criken could get out before Tomato turned again.

“Again, the rocket launcher,” Tomato’s voice raised, and Criken glanced in the backseat.

“Really?”

“Yes really, if you’d like to live, please, be my guest.” Criken reached back, thinking to himself that this wasn’t the worst way to die, and swung it around, aiming it out the window, and firing.

In the brief moment before impact, Criken felt that adrenaline again, right before the massacre. Then there was the explosion, and Criken shielded his eyes.

“Yeah! That’s it!” Tomato cheered, and Criken smiled back at him. A few more turns, and Tomato slowed to a regular pace, finally pulling into the garage of a mechanic shop. He turns off the car, exits and pulls down the garage door. Criken exits as well, and Tomato flips on a light.

“You got my stuff?” A familiar voice says, and Tomato answers.

“Yes m’am, and even more,” Tomato opens the trunk, pulling out a duffel bag, and walks back to the front of the car. A figure comes out of the darkness, and Criken gasps.

“Bree?” She pauses, and a big grin fills her face.

“Criken! What are you doing here?” Criken turned to Tomato, who looked a little confused. 

“Wait, you two know each other?” He asked, gesturing between the two of them, and Bree laughed. “This isn’t the guy you have a bounty out for?” He added, and Bree laughed harder.

“What is he talking about,” Criken asked, just as confused now as Tomato.

“He-” Bree laughed. “He thought you were this meth dealer that owed me money,” she laughed.

“So I don’t get anything for picking this twink up?” Tomato groaned, turning to his car to leave. Criken suddenly had an idea. A crazy one, but an idea nonetheless.

“Hey,” he called, and Tomato stopped, door midway open. “How would you like a job?”


End file.
